Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Weather Vain: One Man's Man-Boobs Are Another Man's Barometer

I'm normally not one to honk my own clown nose, but the fact remains that I've been riding bikes or awhile now and over the years I've learned a thing or two. For example, consider getting dressed for a ride. This is something with which "newbies" tend to have a difficult time. Either they overdress and overheat, or they underdress and freeze, or they carry a bunch of rain gear for a storm that never comes, or they find themselves caught in a storm with nothing to protect them from the downpour but an empty Clif Bar packet.

On the other hand, the seasoned rider knows how to account for these meteorological vicissitudes, and he does so by Being In Touch With His Environment. Nature offers us all the clues we need as to the conditions of the day ahead if only we learn how to look and listen. Some experienced riders listen for clues in the morning birdsong. Others dig their fingers deep into the soil and smell the earth itself. As for me, I gauge the conditions by the guy who smokes on his fire escape:

With the punctuality of a Swiss timepiece, this silverback gorilla clambers out of his window every hour to suck down a cancer stick. But he's not just a hirsute human cuckoo clock; he's also a thermometer, barometer, and living weather "app" all in one. This is because his choice of attire (or lack thereof) allows me to divine the weather conditions. For example, if he's merely wearing underpants (as in the picture above), I know it's a shorts-and-short-sleeves day. However, if he's resplendent in his velour sweatsuit, I know I need to layer up with leg warmers and arm warmers and maybe even a vest and gloves. Furthermore, the volume of his smoke plume reveals to me the relative humidity, and it also acts as a windsock by informing me of the wind direction. If I really want to be accurate I'll occasionally cross-reference the guy who smokes on his fire escape with his wife who shakes out their bedding while wearing a bra, but for all but the most "epic" rides one or the other is generally sufficient.

You know who's also an experienced cyclist? David Byrne. This is because he doesn't own a car--or does he?

By now you may have seen Byrne's new and inscrutable music video, in which he emerges from and then does weird stuff near a gasoline-powered motor vehicle:

I was unable to watch the video straight through as I have not attained the Bard College degree it is necessary to have in order to do so, but I did skip around a bit, and what I did see was very thought-provoking:

In fact, the above sequence called to mind Pee-Wee Herman dancing on the bar for the Satan's Helpers, and it led me to wonder whether the two artists share some sort of "Dorian Gray" relationship in which Pee-Wee stays perennially prepubescent while Byrne grays and withers:

Then I looked closer at Pee-Wee Herman and realized he looks like he just got back from the embalmers, whereas Byrne looks more or less like a normal human (albeit one who has not experienced the joys and miseries of car ownership), and so I scrapped that theory. Nevertheless, I'm hoping that my essay "The Bicycle, Spasmodically Dancing Man-Children, and The Future of Urban Transport" will land me a cushy research gig at a well-endowed university. (And by "well-endowed" I do not mean the Mario Cipollini University for Natural Male Enhancement.)

You can say this about Tyler Hamilton's new book: Even the author knows people would rather read about Lance Armstrong.

Though the causticity of the "burn" is diluted somewhat by the fact that it's coming from "USA Today," which is basically just a paper diner placemat with a few more pages and a weather section. Still, I doubt I'll be reading it since this whole doping thing has become impossibly tedious, and if a bunch of aging jocks are going to play out their personal dramas in a public forum I'd at least like them to take the time to put a few rubber bands in their beards:

If you're looking for escapism then I suppose following sports is a decent choice, but if you insist on having integrity with your escapism then your only real choice is art. Athletes and artists both have talent, and they both like to enhance that talent with drugs. The crucial difference though is that nobody calls Jimi Hendrix a doper because he was on drugs when he recorded "Are You Experienced." This is why we're appalled by someone slapping a testosterone patch on his balls to win the Tour de France, yet we're delighted by someone tripping his balls off on LSD to make some freaky sounds--sooner or later an athlete is bound to betray your trust, whereas the only way an artist is likely to do that is if they sober up. It's also why you should never, ever get a tattoo like this one, which was pointed out by a commenter yesterday:

Though it does manage to combine the foolhardiness of a girlfriend/boyfriend name tattoo, the indignity of a corporate logo tattoo, and the treacly sentimentality of a poetry tattoo in one unfortunate package.

Yes, art is always the wiser choice, because you can let your guard down when you enjoy art, whereas watching sports without a healthy dose of cynicism is like leaving your bike outside without a lock. And speaking of stolen bikes, here's an article that has been making the rounds lately, and that, like most articles about stolen bikes, contains almost no information that isn't already completely obvious:

(Bike thief or hipster cyclocrosser?)

Sure, you already knew that bikes get stolen all the time and nothing happens, but did you also have a chart to prove it?

Also, the article contains some gross misinformation:

Anybody who knows anything about bikes knows there is indeed a Keyser Söze of bicycles, and here's his picture:

The way the caper works is this: Söze's crew make some swoopy designs on a computer between group rides, some other company in a faraway country builds the swoopy designs out of plastic, and then Söze sells you the plastic lump as a "module" for thousands of dollars. Fortunately though, there is one man who can save us:

Ok so now I've seen DB in two petrol powered vehicles. The first was a Chrysler K-Car in the classic movie "True Stories" where he tooled around a fictional Texas town "rocking" a 10 gallon cowboy hat. Now he emerges from an American Motors Matador estate wagon. Without a doubt two of the most unreliable and unattractive cars ever excreted from the bowels of Detroit. If those were my unfortunate auto choices I'd swear off cars as well.

"I think you're all fucked in the head! We're ten hours from the fucking fun park and you want to bail out. Well I'll tell you something, this is no longer a vacation, it's a quest. It's a quest for fun, I'm gonna have fun and you're gonna have fun, we're all gonna have so much fucking fun we'll need plastic surgery to remove our goddamn smiles! You'll be whistling Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah out of your assholes! I gotta be crazy; I'm on a pilgrimage to see a moose! Praise Marty Moose!"

"Though it does manage to combine the foolhardiness of a girlfriend/boyfriend name tattoo, the indignity of a corporate logo tattoo, and the treacly sentimentality of a poetry tattoo in one unfortunate package."

Snob wins the Internet again today. Well done.

Now that I've read the smartest comment available today, I can turn off my computer.

Apropos to nothing, the more I think about this past week the angrier I get.

Hit by a left hook from the going straight lane - I was bruised and scraped but the driver kept on going.

Got brushed back yesterday by a yogamom so I took the lane and got brushed back by her grandfather.

Today, got brushed back while doing the speed limit by a retired gentlemen who "wanted to show me" I was too far to the left and "he wasn't going to cross the yellow line for anything". Those six inches he gave weren't nearly enough and illegal regardless of his attitudes re the yellow line. I told him, I'm a car when I'm riding the speed limit, if you can't pass safely then don't pass at all. He told me he rides too. I told him Id be looking for him and would offer him the same consideration.

Is it just me or has anyone else considered changing their screen name to "Spasmodically Dancing Man-Child"?

"leroy SDMC" kind of has a nice ring to it.

And there is an anagram of MD in there. That might make my mother happy or at least help me avoid parking tickets.

Of course, my dog hasn't had much luck passing himself off as a doctor. He's still trying to market his all natural Viagra alternative. I told him no one was going to pay him for popsicle sticks and rubberbands even if wears a white lab coat and looks serious.

I mean, he's not even a Lab.

Of course, he claims that "leroy SDMC" reminds him of RUNS DMC -- the erstwhile hip hop group named after a digestive ailment.

Taser? The driver had rolled down his window so we could exchange our pleasantries. I didn't have the heart to tell him that that was a mistake. I'm a "no harm,no foul" kinda guy but some aren't. That open window was an open invitation to a get a face full of pepper spray. If I had it, would I have used it?No. He was just as uncomfortable as I was.

He saw me flip him off so he was looking in the rear view - he knew what he was doing was provocative. He knew he might get called on it - those pesky red lights, you know. Still...

Here in the Midwestern part of Midwest Illinoiz, people steal bikes to get across town, then drop them in the weeds. Somebody else needs to get across town, checks to see if the coast is clear, and the cycle begins again. It's like bike share, without the money.

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About Me

While I love cycling and embrace it in all its forms, I'm also extremely critical. So I present to you my venting for your amusement and betterment. No offense meant to the critiqued. Always keep riding!